Memories Fading
by GoldenVine
Summary: A blast from Molly's past brings unwelcome revelations her way. Will Sherlock ever stop surprising her?
1. Chapter 1

**A/U - I'm back! I said I would do one-shots but I lied. This is indeed a multi-chapter story but will be going a bit slower than the last one due to the revelation that I do indeed have a real life as well... Enjoy!**

**Thanks to my beta.**

**Disclaimer - I own nothing. Well, technically I own Jayne and Charlie and the plot...but the rest isn't mine.**

Molly was an only child and growing up she didn't have many friends. She had two whom she could remember namely Jayne, a small redheaded girl with a freckle covered face and a big childish grin, and Charlie, a blonde boy who would sometimes come out to play if he was bored.

They used to go to a small park just down from her house and play on the round-a-bout until they were too dizzy to walk straight, then they would collapse on the grass and mindlessly pick daises and tell stories until one of their mums came to take them home for dinner. Sometimes, if they felt adventurous enough, they would play pirates and roam the woods behind their houses looking for hidden treasure.

Molly always remembers the Christmas she got a metal detector from an aunt who had come to visit from Scotland. From that day forward it was her most prized possession. She and Jayne and Charlie would take it to the beach and look for treasure each taking turns to listen for a specific high pitch screech that signalled a find, normally a bottle top or drinks can, but it was still exciting to find anything at all. That was their favourite game all throughout school.

They kept in touch for a while after they each went to their respective universities but soon enough the letters stopped coming and everyone forgot about their favourite game and the little park with the swings and started to focus on adult life. She doesn't know where they are now, though she would like to, but she supposed they must have forgotten about her a long time ago, she _was_ rather forgettable.

Molly was lost in thought when she felt a small nudge at her shoulder. She turned round to find Sherlock staring at her and crouching far too close for her liking.

"Are you quite alright Molly?" he inquired still crouching at her eye level as she was sitting at her desk.

"Yes, I'm fine," she stood up from her seat and stared back at Sherlock, although not right in the eye, she wasn't that brave, "Did you need something?"

Sherlock regarded her with a raised eyebrow but seemed to decide not to say what he was thinking, "I need a body preferably a young woman, about your age, athletic if possible. I need the muscle tissue for an experiment."

Molly looked at her clipboard, "Oh, umm, I have one just in. She was involved in a stabbing, poor girl. I haven't actually done the autopsy yet so you'll have to wait a bit I'm afraid."

"That's fine, Molly, I have an experiment to catalogue anyway, however do be quick."

"Emm ok, I'll be as quick as I can." said Molly flashing an exuberant smile as she quickly popped on gloves and walked over to the furthest away table.

After Sherlock's resurrection he had been a lot less, well, himself really. He had spent 2 years at her flat hiding and planning what he was going to do with Moriarty's web. During that time Molly had gotten much better at dealing with his moods and much better at handling herself around him. Well, most of the time. She couldn't deny that she was still painfully attracted to him, he still caused her to stutter sometimes but at least she didn't make a fool of herself in front of him anymore. Living with him had made her come to terms with the fact that he just didn't do relationships and that it wouldn't work anyway.

Tearing her gaze away from Sherlock, who was now completely ignoring her in favour of looking through the microscope, she sighed as she looked at the scribbled mess on her clipboard. Whoever filled out the paperwork had terrible handwriting Molly could just about make out the basic details but the rest was illegible. She huffed as she put down the clipboard and started to unzip the bag.

Molly gasped and backed up against the filing cabinet as she caught site of her latest cadaver.

It can't be. It just can't be,

she thought as she fixed her eyes shut and took in a ragged breath.

Sherlock looked at Molly as she covered her eyes with her hands. _What's wrong with her?_ He thought as he made his way over to the unzipped body bag, curious as to what had made Molly recoil so suddenly.

Inside was a young woman with freckled skin and bright red hair.

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	2. Chapter 2

**A/N - An update, I hear you cry? Yeah, sorry about the wait. I won't make excuses but you know how being a writer is and juggling real life as well. Anyway, there will be mentions of drug use in this story but nothing too explicit however in later chapters the rating may bump up for violence and other things... Without further ado, enjoy! **

_he woman was about Molly's age_, he supposed,_ possibly a bit younger. Molly's reaction would suggest that she knew her, friends not acquaintances, childhood possibly certainly high school as Molly recognised her strongly. Small puncture marks on arms; drugs user. Intravenous, preferred method, heroin or cocaine then. Stab wound in the chest fatal and ragged around the edges. Not a professional killer. Drugs war probably, couldn't pay her dealer which led to her untimely demise. Barely a 3 and most definitely not worth my time_.

Sherlock turned around to deliver his deductions to Molly but stopped short. Molly had her eyes closed and was taking very short rapid breaths causing her ribs to shudder and the room to spin. She was having a panic attack. No sooner had it registered in Sherlock's mind than he was in front of her gently holding her face in his hands.

"Molly. Molly can you hear me. You need to take deep breaths. Molly. Molly you are having a panic attack take deep breaths" Sherlock commanded.

A few tense seconds later and Molly started taking deep breaths enough to allow her to grip Sherlock's arms for purchase. She leaned back and slid down the steel cupboard taking Sherlock with her. She allowed the cold morgue floor to ground her as she tried to steady her breathing.

_It can't be, it just can't be_, she thought as she dropped her head in her hands.

Sherlock was at a loss. He didn't do comfort, in fact, he didn't _need_ to comfort her. He could walk away and get someone else to deal with the overly emotional woman. He could clean his hands of her and come back when she was in a more stable emotional state. However, something was pulling him to her and it made him feel queasy to acknowledge it.

It was that same pulling feeling that tugged in his chest whenever Molly was upset. Whenever a date had cancelled on her, or her cat was ill or a character off that show she liked was killed off he would get this unusual feeling in his chest like he wanted to grab Molly and wrap her up in his arms. He wanted to feel her steady heartbeat and calm her so that she would nestle into him and the feeling in his chest would go away. It made him sick to think about it.

He brought his hands off of Molly as quick as he could and stood up to have another look at the body. He did not do _feelings_, to quote Lestrade they weren't 'his division'. If he just ignored Molly they would go away, like all the other times, eventually. His father had always told him to keep a woman at arm's length, overly sentimental creatures that they were although he loathed to think that his father was right.

"Who is she?" Sherlock asked, rather demanded.

The only reply was a chocked sob as Molly had dared not move since the room had stopped spinning.

Sherlock huffed and looked up from the body. Molly was so tiny against the imposing morgue lockers. Tiny, fragile and _his_. No. Stop it. He looked back at the body and asked again, willing the feeling in his chest to stop, "Molly. Who is she?"

"She's...an old friend," Molly sobbed, "I haven't seen her since uni though. We used to play together all the time when we were little. Now she's...she's gone and...and..."

"Molly go home."

Molly looked up at Sherlock wide eyed, "What-t?"

"Go home. You are obviously distressed and in your current state you are of no use to anyone, least of all the dead," Sherlock winced at the harsh tone in his voice. He did not want to upset Molly further, "please."

"I can't. I have work and I..."

"Mike will understand I'm sure. Now come on. Take one of those calming baths you rave about. That should help you." Sherlock did not know what had come over him. He shouldn't be giving her advice on grieving, of all things. He shouldn't care, no he didn't care. The sooner she was out of the morgue the sooner he could get back to Baker Street and slap on a nicotine patch, or three. He was obviously craving them and that would account for his strange behaviour.

Molly was at a loss for words. First the shock of seeing her estranged friend lying lifeless on a slab and now Sherlock being kind. She silently wondered if she had perhaps dreamt up this scenario and was about to wake up in her bed, cold and alone, however she was reminded of just how real this was when Sherlock pulled her roughly to her feet and shoved her coat and oversized bag at her and quite forcefully bundled her out of the morgue and into a waiting taxi.

Later that night Sherlock tossed and turned on the couch of 221b and found that Molly Hooper was indeed a 5 patch problem and even then he suspected that nicotine was not going to be enough to ease the tightening in his chest, if anything it appeared to make it worse.

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